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Admiral John Smith sat stark and semidark at the crossroads among the war torn.
With no urgency for liturgy, he wrapped his men tightly with tattered blankets around 
likewise mortalities.

Nearby, in an irreverent attempt for a God-like Eucharist, homegrown quilted women lit 
store-bought cigarettes and watched the smoke curling out over a foggy crisp soggy bog 
near will o' the wisp.

Admiral Smith sat quietly. At his feet, fleas flit like stones skipping 'cross the barely dim 
glow. Down below bitter cold creatures' skeletal souls scattered broken-field into a hissing 
abyss. Alone he remembered how his battalions never broke formation charging into those 
shattering shells of Hell.

Battles were fought steely with stern determination. He saw this great nation lay askew 
where Clearwater used to be free. As the bald egalitarian deadheads stared dead ahead into 
shadows of semidark, the Whitewater fights ran yellow into red and white stripes through the 
deep blue that runs through many sleepless knights. We prayed Admiral Smith would get 
sleep as he kept watch over the faithful.

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